A Mutual Interest in Numbers (Love and the Library Book 2)

by Linda Banche

  A MUTUAL INTEREST IN NUMBERS

  Book 2 of Love and the Library

  By Linda Banche

  Kindle Edition

  Discover other works by Linda Banche

  at

  http://www.lindabanche.com

  ***

  Text copyright © 2013 Linda Banche

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  A MUTUAL INTEREST IN NUMBERS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from A Similar Taste in Books

  About the Author

  Connect with me online!

  Other Books by Linda Banche

  End

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  August, 1818

  “Let us lift our glasses in toast to a fallen comrade.” Mr. Randall Trant stood and raised his wine goblet high.

  Mr. Godfrey Coffey, sitting with Trant in the morning room in White’s Gentlemen’s Club, quirked an eyebrow at Mr. Francis Wynne as both men rose.

  Forehead puckering, Wynne smoothed a hand down the side of his fashionably tight trousers. “I say, Trant, whom are we toasting? I cannot remember that anyone has died.”

  Bright sunlight flooding through the bow window made famous by the exiled Beau Brummell glinted off Trant’s sleekly muscled form. In his well-tailored blue tailcoat, buff-colored pantaloons and Hessians whose blinding gloss probably frightened dust away, he struck an all too familiar pose.

  Coffey privately called the oft-repeated stance “The Elegant English Gentleman—And He Knows It”. He curled a lip. Probably waiting for someone to etch his likeness on a coin.

  A wrinkle formed between Trant’s eyebrows, marring the perfection of his chiseled features. “I shall get to that, if you will let me.” He cleared his throat and lifted his glass higher. “To Mr. Justin Fellowes. We knew you well.” He sighed and then quaffed his drink.

  With a thump, Coffey deposited his goblet on the central table. “What fustian is this? Fellowes is very much alive.”

  Wynne wagged his head in agreement. “Yes, he ain’t dead. I saw him only this morning with that lovely Miss Haley.”

  The crease between Trant’s eyes deepened. “Exactly what I mean. Now that Fellowes has found a lady, he is dead to us. No longer has time for his friends.” He heaved another heavy sigh. “He has forsaken us.”

  “Would that I was so forsaken.” Coffey settled himself back into his chair and picked up his drink. “Again, what flummery are you spouting? He fenced with you last Saturday as he does every week.” He took a sip of his brandy and enjoyed the burn as the fiery liquor slipped down his throat. “Trounced you handily, too.”

  Trant scowled. “An aberration.”

  Coffey smiled. Now I have you. “He trounced you the previous Saturday and the week before that, too. Quite a few ‘aberrations’, by my reckoning.”

  Trant set his glass down so hard the fine brandy sloshed over the rim. He placed his hands on the arms of Coffey’s chair, boxing him in, and then loomed over him. “If you would care to take me on…”

  Coffey elevated one shoulder in a careless shrug that always irritated Trant. Indeed, he had a whole repertoire of such gestures. Had to keep the man in his place. “I prefer to spar with the fencing master.” He looked down, or rather up, his nose at Trant. “I want only the best.”

  “Why, you…” Trant grabbed one of Coffey’s lapels.

  “Stop, both of you.” Wynne, an uncharacteristic scowl on his normally genial face, caught Trant’s arm. “I do miss Fellowes. He could always jolly you two apart. Without him, you brangle much too often.”

  Coffey detached Trant’s hand from his lapel and smoothed out the crushed fabric. “Indeed.”

  Trant glowered at him once more before he returned to his own chair. “I will make an effort not to brangle with you, Godfrey.”

  Coffey gritted his teeth. He hated his Christian name. “And I will make an effort not to brangle with you…Aloysius.”

  Trant’s jaw almost hit the floor. “How did you find out my middle name?”

  Coffey curved his lips into a smug smile that always plagued the devil out of Trant. Another of his collection. “Oh, I have my ways.” Actually, he had overheard Trant’s sister calling him the name to annoy him.

  Wynne fell against his chair back, laughing. “Your middle name is Aloysius?”

  “What’s that?” A snort heralded the awakening of the elderly gentleman occupying the padded chair outside their circle. Garbed in the white powered wig, long frock coat, breeches and buckled shoes of the previous generation, he jerked his head up from his chest. “Aloysius? Demme, I have not heard that name since I was a lad!” He slapped his knee. “In my day, we always ragged the boys named Aloysius. What a splendid time we had.” The edges of his lips curved down. “The name is uncommon now. Cannot think why.” His head dropped again to his chest and another snore erupted from his lips.

  Trant flapped his hand in a shushing motion. “Well, keep your voice down. I never want to hear that benighted name again.”

  Coffey shrugged. “As you will. But if you must use my Christian name, use my middle name of ‘Laurence’.”

  Wynne tilted his head and studied Coffey. “I did not know ‘Laurence’ was your middle name.”

  “Rarely comes up in conversation.” He returned his gaze to Trant. “But I prefer ‘Coffey’. What say you, Aloy—”

  Trant again made the shushing motion. “As you wish, Coffey.” His voice hissed out through gritted teeth.

  Laurence bit his lip to hide his smile. Gudgeon that Trant sometimes was, he was quite biddable once you knew how to handle him.

  But, time to change the subject. He raised his glass and studied the amber liquid within. “I miss Fellowes, too. He was always so happy.”

  “There you go, talking about him again as if he were dead.” Wynne shook his head. “He is not dead. What he is, is…lucky.”

  Trant flicked a fingernail against the rim of his goblet. A bright crystalline chime rang out. “How so?”

  Wynne’s head swung from Laurence to Trant. “He has a beautiful lady, while we are stuck with each other.”

  Chapter 2

  Laurence stood on the corner of St. James Street and Piccadilly after waving Trant and Wynne on their way. He tapped his walking stick against his leg as a curricle rumbled past before he angled across the intersection to continue down Bond Street.

  Wynne’s final words lingered in his mind. Fellowes was indeed lucky. While both he and Trant had scoffed at their friend’s comment, Laurence had to admit—privately, that is—that he was right.

  In some ways, he envied Justin Fellowes. Fellowes had a lady, and from all intents and purposes, they were both smitten with each other. And he hadn’t found her at some ball full of high-bred simpering misses who were all indistinguishable from each other. No, he had found her at the library. A meeting of minds, as well, presumably, of bodies.

  A heavy stone settled in his stomach. Would that he could find such a lady. None of the ones he met lingered in his thoughts for any reason.

  He stepped off the pavements to maneuver around a formidable lady marching along with her overdressed daughter in tow. Poor girl. Her mother had probably dressed her
in that unflattering befrilled gown. The daughter’s down-cast eyes lifted and a faint smile curled her lips. He quirked up his own lips in an absent reply. A lady likely too in thrall to her mother for his taste.

  He blew out a breath. Damnation, enough of this social frivolity. A man needed useful occupation. He was three and twenty, old enough to have fixed on a course in life.

  As much as he enjoyed the fine clothes, good food and other pleasures afforded a gentleman of the ton, the whole rig had become tedious of late. God forbid he end up like those worthless fribbles who worried themselves sick over the cut and color of their waistcoats.

  He hopped back onto the pavements and strode on, the babble of conversation and thumping of footfalls a meaningless buzz in his ears. The fine summer day had apparently encouraged the entire town to venture out. Or perhaps they were hot indoors and needed to cool off. According to the records of the Royal Society, so far this summer was much warmer than normal.

  The ocean of humanity thickened and forced him to a halt. Blinking out of his haze, he beheld the façade of Hookham’s Book Shop and Lending Library. Somehow, his thoughts of Fellowes had brought him here, the place where his friend had met his lady.

  His heart sped up. Could lightning strike twice in the same place? Perhaps if he went inside...

  His heart clanked back to normal speed. Wishes, magic and hopeful thinking didn’t accomplish anything.

  A pedestrian behind him bumped his shoulder, shoving him a step closer to the book shop. The man murmured an absent apology before disappearing into the crowd.

  As if singing a siren song, Hookham’s beckoned, urging him to enter. Another pedestrian brushed against him, pushing him yet closer.

  An omen? His lips twisted. He didn’t believe in omens.

  A sudden beam of sunlight penetrated London’s ever-present haze of coal smoke to fall on the book shop. The brick sparkled like crystal, transforming the humble place of business into an enchanted palace.

  Laurence shrugged. Well, taking a look inside couldn’t hurt. He bounded up the stairs.

  The front of the establishment housed the book shop, filled with milling, chattering patrons. Sidestepping to avoid a rotund matron, he made straight for the library at the back. As he paused under the arch that separated the two parts of the shop, the noise around him fell away. Amazing the silence that pervaded a library, when only a few paces away the bustle of commercial transactions bubbled and frothed.

  Off to the right, a velvet cord roped off rows of free-standing shelves filled with books of all sizes and mostly dull covers. Positioned before the rope, like a dragon protecting the paper-and-ink-scented, leather-bound treasure trove, was a counter manned by a short, skinny, bespectacled clerk.

  Laurence had been here only once before and he hadn’t paid much attention to the place. Why borrow books, when had enough money to buy whatever he liked? Not that he was much of a reader. These days, he mostly perused news sheets and magazines, and White’s always had the latest copies.

  “May I help you, sir?” The clerk raised his eyebrows as he handed the tome he had wrapped to a patron.

  “No, not right now, thank you.” The clerk didn’t look like much of a dragon. Books were expensive due to the tax on paper. How could the shop have entrusted their valuable merchandise to such a meek defender?

  “Do you have an account here?”

  “No.”

  The clerk’s eyebrows lowered and his eyes shot fire, for a disturbing second transforming him into the ferocious dragon guardian of the books. “I remember you. You were one of the rowdy lads who mishandled our books several weeks ago.”

  An odd chill slid down Laurence’s back. How could a mere shop assistant elicit such a response?

  The man’s eyes widened, dissipating his momentarily threatening aspect and Laurence’s chill. “We do not tolerate such conduct here. If you attempt to act so again, I will have you removed.”

  Hell and the devil. Will I never live down that error of judgment? “I apologize. Such behavior will not occur again, I assure you.” But the gall of the man, to take him to task. Why, he was probably younger than Laurence, and a tradesman to boot.

  The clerk sniffed.

  Mistrustful. Well, he had every right to be. “I am considering opening an account.”

  The clerk’s face relaxed a fraction, and a wary smile curved his lips. “Well, then, look around. If you need help, I’m here.” A lady set a book on the counter, and he swung his attention to the patron.

  Free from the clerk’s suspicious examination, Laurence crossed to the arch at his left. Before him opened the spacious Reading Room. Light poured from a large window at the back as well as from the multiple candles in the crystal chandelier overhead. Readers occupied comfortable chairs scattered around the polished wood floor, the only sounds an occasional cough and the crisp rasp of turning pages. A bouquet of red, yellow and blue flowers filled the hearth, unused at this time of year, and an ornate clock ticked merrily away on the mantel above. A large polished trestle table littered with books and pamphlets occupied the center of the room.

  In a cushioned chair by the fireplace, a plainly dressed young lady leafed through a leather-bound tome. Both her bonnet and dress were grey, giving her the air of a governess or companion. Wisps of blonde hair peeped out from her bonnet. She was slender, by the looks of her. In profile, she had a pert nose and a sweet, pink mouth.

  He narrowed his eyes. She looked vaguely familiar. Where could he have seen her?

  She lifted her head. A pair of eyes the deepest blue he had ever seen snatched Laurence into their net and spun him into a vortex. For a few charged seconds, he froze, as the world contracted to the lovely lady with the bewitching eyes.

  Then she again bent to her book.

  ***

  Miss Ellen Palmer dipped her head to her book, but her gaze followed the handsome young man who had just entered the Reading Room.

  A shaft of sunlight glinted streaks of gold in the artfully tousled curls of his light brown hair. High cheekbones accented his narrow face and his prominent, but not too large, nose. Dark brown eyebrows and lashes framed eyes the light blue of the sea on a partly cloudy day.

  Gentlemen of fashion did not figure in her life, but he dressed exactly as she had pictured them. A well-cut, coffee brown double-breasted tailcoat over a lighter brown waistcoat. A pristine white cravat curling in a starched masterpiece of a knot. Pleated, light-colored pin-striped trousers wide at the hip that tapered down well-shaped legs to his ankles, where a strap anchored them under polished dark brown half boots.

  Cossack trousers, they were called, and they were le dernier cri in male attire. Why, she couldn’t understand, because pleats made most men look fat. But on this man, they instead emphasized the leanness of his hips.

  She gave an inward sigh. He was quite the best-looking man she had ever seen, as well as the most fashionable.

  Although he did look a bit silly with his eyes all glassy and his mouth hanging open.

  His blinked as if waking from a trance. Then he firmed his jaw and stepped up to the table where patrons left books they had finished reading. He swallowed hard, and then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead.

  Gracious, he looked so overset. How she would like to soothe away his cares. Her pulse fluttered.

  She would enjoy meeting him, but did she dare? Such an action was beyond the bounds of propriety. She might not be a lady born, like the sprigs of the aristocracy that patronized the library, but manners were manners.

  He shuffled the books and pamphlets on the table. If she did nothing, he would soon leave.

  Her heart thumping a rapid tattoo, she closed her book. He was only a short distance away. All she had to do was walk over.

  ***

  Laurence’s breath stuttered back to life. Damnation, what had happened? He shook his head to clear the fog that had taken residence in his brain. He needed action to bring himself back to earth.

&n
bsp; With shaking hands, he pushed aside a copy of Byron’s The Corsair and then curled his lip at a volume of sermons. Gads, sermons on Sunday were enough for anyone.

  He set the sermons aside to reveal the book beneath. Pride and Prejudice. The novel that had brought Fellowes his lady.

  Could this book somehow help a man find his love? He extended his hand toward the tome...

  A gloved feminine hand, also reaching for the novel, bumped into his. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” The voice was soft and musical.

  He jerked upright. “No, I beg your pardon.” The same extraordinary blue eyes that had almost knocked him flat a moment ago threatened to do so again. And he wouldn’t even care. As if he were under the effect of Mr. Mesmer’s animal magnetism, he waved in the general direction of the book. “Please, be my guest.” Take the book. Take me.

  Up close, the lady was even more beautiful. She smiled, the color of her lips deepening to an inviting rosy hue. Steaks of darker gold banded through her blonde hair, the lighter tresses gleaming as if she always walked in sunlight. Lashes a shade darker than her hair framed and highlighted those stunning azure eyes. Her face was oval and her skin creamy.

  A creature formed of sunbeams and daisies.

  His breath halted again.

  “Thank you, sir.” As she picked up the three volumes of the novel, the title of the book she cradled in her other arm came into Laurence’s view. History of the Steam Engine, From Its First Invention to the Present Time by Elijah Galloway, Engineer.

  A book on steam engines?

  Laurence’s pretty little air castle collapsed. A bluestocking. How could such a lovely woman waste time on mathematics?

  Some would call Fellowes’s lady a bluestocking. He’s very happy.

  For a slice of a second, Laurence’s thoughts racketed back and forth. Should he continue his pursuit, or not?

  She stood before him, all sparkling light and flowers. Her lips curved into an inviting smile.

  Well, she was certainly delectable, whatever her tastes in reading. Mayhap his inner voice was right.